Killing Gets the Job Done
by Alena Blackheart
Summary: What would happen in a world where, instead of the no-guns-allowed/Justice-loving bat Gotham knows and 'loves', Bruce Wayne instead took over the crime world by force and started a gang known as the Dark Knights that stalks the night and rids the city of the worst, controls the bad, and terrifies the pathetic? Let's find out, shall we? (( AU: Mafia. Think UtRH. M for violence. ))


I'm baaack.

And I made a shiny new AU to play in. Mafia-ness!

This is just a sort of teaser-chapter to see how people react to it. Hope you enjoy. c:

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nada. Zilch. Sadly.

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"You will put your hands on your head and turn. Slowly." The sound of a cocking gun cuts through the sudden silence of the dark office – accentuating the final word before it is even spoken. "Now."

Dick hears Bruce let out a low sound: one that *could* be a curse, in Bruce's personal language composed of grunts and growls. It has the same force behind it that a curse would have, at least. But as he sees Bruce slowly place his hands on his head, Dick has no choice but to sigh and slowly turn around – his own hands moving in the process. But as he catches glimpse of the figure behind him, he freezes with his hands held up as though he is in an old western stick-up. But he cannot help it – just like he cannot help but literally gape at the fact that _it's just a kid! The person holding a gun to us is just. a. kid!_

Said kid – who can't be more than nine, he just *can't* - narrows his bright blue eyes and holds the gun slightly higher: his left hand cupping his right with all the technique of a trained killer. One slender finger bends, gracing along the gun's trigger threateningly, before he snarls out: his voice soft and calm yet oh-so-dangerous, "I said hands on your head. Failure follow my orders will result in your joining of the rest of the group, here." The boy jerks his head in a sort of sideways-nod: gesturing towards the many bodies littering the floor around them. Around fifteen in all.

Dick swallows hard, mentally agreeing with Bruce's low growl that – from past experience – Dick has learned to mean 'This isn't good.' It's just a kid: they can't shoot him. They can't even fight him. On top of that, they are in their civilian clothes. No masks, no extraordinarily useful weapons. They are literally at his mercy: stuck following his whims until they – meaning Bruce – thinks of a plan.

As slowly as he can, Dick lets his hands drop to his head as he takes a small step back: taking in a sharp breath through his nose as the barrel of the gun suddenly zeros in on him. He forces a weak smile before chiming, voice remaining pleasantly light all things considered,

"Hey kiddo – we don't mean you any harm, alright? Just – how 'bout you put that down and let us talk to you. I'm sure we can –" Gunfire cuts off whatever Dick had been saying and, after taking two seconds to assess himself to make sure *he* hadn't received the bullet, he turns to face Bruce. The man is turned away from him: staring down at a masked figure writhing on the ground behind him. Another assassin: the ones sent to kill Bruce. Dick blinks and snaps his gaze back to the kid – completely forgetting about the 'hands on the head' rule as his eyes trail from the smoke slithering out of the kid's gun's silver barrel to his icy blue eyes. He hears the man stop struggling – probably dead or unconscious. Hopefully the latter. He hears Bruce slowly turn back around. But he doesn't look away from those eyes: shuttered and unreadable. The eyes of a killer. _Only a kid!_

"I did that for my sake. I do not want you dead yet." the boy says with that same creepy sort of calm to his voice: as though he had made a side comment about a chance of rain in the forecast. Dick feels himself swallow again, hard, and resists the urge to take off running then and there.

"Why would you want us in the first place?" Bruce's gruff voice echoes from behind him – sending some small amount of comfort through his being. Bruce could figure this out. . .hopefully. The kid just frowns, rests his finger on the trigger, and then speaks: his too-calm, too-empty voice finally wavering slightly with emotion: his empty eyes glimmering momentarily with tears in the very far corners,

"I know who you are. I know what you do. I know about your *other* life. And I know these people work for you." The child gestures towards the bodies again, this time with the gun – yet he manages to do so without ever shifting the barrel away Dick and Bruce.

Dick barely suppresses a gasp as Bruce's simultaneous grunt clearly states 'This *really* isn't good.' But no – the kid can't *possibly* mean. . . Can he? He would have told someone. Used if for leverage. After all, knowing that the city's top crime lords are secretly the city's most well-known celebrities. . .That is *serious* dirt in Gotham.

"Work for us. . .? Are you implying that we employ these gang leaders? These are some of Gotham's most wanted. I recognize-" Another shot cuts Bruce's 'dumb playboy act' off– this one aimed at the ground a couple feet to Dick's right. Dick chances a quick glance at the hole before snapping his gaze back to the kid – who once again has the gun raised and a 'Do *not* screw with me' look on his face. One that sends a sharp pang through Dick's chest as a familiar image of another young boy with dark hair and teal eyes flashes through his mind. But no time to think about that now – the kid is talking again:

"You are the Bat. Do not deny it – I have known since I was nine. And I know who you employ – I know who pays up to you." Dick blinks because – whoa. Double whoa. For one, nine? The kid *isn't* nine right now? He's too small to be any older. And – he knows?! How the hell does he know!? Dick desperately wants to turn around: see if Bruce is just as bothered and confused as he is, but the gun zeroing in on him is enough to keep him perfectly still. The kid stares directly into his eyes and blinks, the wetness in his gaze spilling over and slowly trailing down his right cheek with the action. And, despite the fact that the kid is so openly threatening his life, Dick feels his heart throb and the sudden need to scoop the kid into his arms because _so young. So familiar. _

"And you." the kid speaks, his voice an odd mix of a dark growl and a whimpered whisper, "You are Nightwing. Second in command. I know. Do *not* try to make me out as some sort of fool. I *know*. So-" Dick would be lying to himself if he said he did not let out a small sigh as the gun moves back to Bruce. It's not like he has never been held at gunpoint before. Hell, he's been *shot* before: many times. But something about this kid. . .It just wouldn't be right. Probably because of the age. Or how he reminds him of 'him'. Or maybe the tears. But. . .why *are* there tears? The bodies? The blood? Dick focuses back on the conversation as the kid continues,

"So. . .Tell me why. You always seemed like the 'good guys'. Doing what had to be done for the good. Tell me why – tell me a good enough reason and *maybe* I'll let you live. . ." The finger bends, seconds from pulling the trigger: like the blade of the ax glinting as the executioner raises it above his head. A threat – a promise, "Why did you kill the Drakes? Why did you kill my parents?"

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Cliffies. Because I'm evil.

Love it? Hate it? Could you even make sense of it? Let me know so I can decide how chapters will go from here on. :3

Thanks for reading. Until again, pigeons.


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